


sappho by the sea

by razbliuto



Category: One Piece
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, Reader-Insert, Romance, Sex, WOMEN!!!.gif
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28338996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razbliuto/pseuds/razbliuto
Summary: “sweet mother, i cannot weave –slender aphrodite has overcome mewith longing for a girl.”wlw reader-insert oneshots, featuring lots of sapphic pirates.
Relationships: Reader/Everyone
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	1. monet

**Author's Note:**

> will update when the mood strikes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you wake up with monet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: semi-nsfw. (ノ▽〃)  
> notes: this oneshot was written for rj's contest on tumblr! the prompt i chose was fireplace. first time writing reader fic so… i hope it reads smooth!

* * *

_if not, winter_

* * *

The thing about Monet is, it’s always _really, really cold_ waking up in her arms.

Like the icy crack of frost, your eyes snap open, your teeth clattering.

It’s freezing in here, in one of the shimmery, lofty bedrooms in the palace. It’s nice and airy in the summer, but in the wintertime these walls are utterly terrible for retaining heat. Not that Dressrosa gets particularly cold in the first place; winter here is mild, filled with flourishing medlar trees. That is, everywhere _but_ the room you reside in with your snow queen.

It starts out fine in the evening, with the fireplace crackling strong. Sometime just before dawn, you start curling into yourself, sleep-mumbling as cold fingers come creeping across your stomach. When morning arrives, you find yourself practically engulfed by Monet as she holds you without even a breath between your bodies.

She likes it, you think. She likes leeching away your warmth as the fire dwindles out during the night. She likes to hold you close under the heavy duvet, leg tangled through leg so she can feel your ankles start shivering, slipping a hand up your shirt and cupping a breast for comfort. For such a cool woman, she’ll snuggle up to you like a leggy, green-haired bear at night. She’ll nip your ears till they turn red with chill, get you hot and bothered before trailing snow from her lips as you shriek. Monet is merciless is more ways than one.

When you turn to glare over your shoulder, your winter-cold lover is smiling languidly at you. Her amber eyes are like honey in the morning haze. _Gah_. You are momentarily struck dumb by how pretty she is, and also by the awareness of some truly extravagant tits pressed against your back. Monet takes the opportunity to tweak your nipple.

You curse yourself for getting flustered so easily. _Don’t let your sneak of a girlfriend win_ , is your inner rallying cry.

“It’s your turn to make the fire,” you remind, voice still thick with sleep.

“ _Oh_ ,” she replies, all soft Dressrosan syrup breathing against your neck, “but I’m _cold_ , my prickly poinsettia.”

You roll your eyes, though she can’t see. “You’re always cold, my seductive snowflake.”

When she hoists herself up on an elbow, her long, wild hair falls over your shoulder in swoopy mint-green, smelling bitterly of sharp, clean snow, which in turns reminds you of pine and forest and mistletoe. You are an unapologetic lesbian cornball and you’d love to do something cheesy like kiss her under mistletoe. She’ll snort and smile dryly in _that way_ and make fun of you for days afterwards. It’ll so be worth it. You make mental preparations immediately.

“Not always cold.” Behind you, she runs her fingertips up and down your arm. Her voice gains a teasing lilt, one that you are most ardently aware of in late nights, buried in each other’s sighs and muffled whimpers. “Not for you.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff, struggling not to blush. Monet wins just about every petty argument you two have, based on her sheer _Monet-ness_. But today will be different, for today you shall claim victory! “It’s too early for this.”

Her light touches stop. She whispers in your ear, a tad pouting, “It’s never too early to be charming. Which I am. If you’d bother to notice.”

“Charm away when I’ve defrosted myself,” you sniff, haughty. “I know you’re just using me as a personal hot water bottle. You’re not being sly.”

It’s evident you two are spending way too much time together, because Monet doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed by your snippy retorts anymore. She snickers and slips a cold hand around your thighs, finds the heat she likes the most, and breathes, tender and insistent, “Can’t help it. Love how warm you are for me.”

You jolt with sudden cold; the wet between your legs is melted snow.

You gasp and kick out of instinct, which she anticipates. Monet has her little _fufufu_ giggles, but she doesn’t _laugh_ laugh very often. The rare times when she does, the sound is chiming and glittery, like icicles coalescing to a fanged point, and it reminds you how much you love her frostiness. (How much you love her.)

Well. This is going quite poorly for you, isn’t it?

You wiggle around in a manner that can be classified as _worm-like_ , swaddled in your blanket burrito, and flop belly-first right on top of Monet. Your glare is so determined that it makes the normally inscrutable snow-lady blink. “I’m deciding between cuddling with you for a while longer or diving into a hot bath so I don’t freeze my tits off. If you’d prefer option one, then fireplace. _Now_. Please.”

Monet blinks again.

Her arms fold around you and rests you back onto the pillow. She does it so fast you barely realize she also snuck in a quick, appreciative pat to your rear. She stretches her arms high up over her head, her back muscles flexing (you are a little bit deeply appreciative of assassin training), the length of her spine extra spectacular this morning.

Monet heads over to the fireplace, and then there’s the sound of logs being haphazardly thrown in, flames being jabbed at with a poker, and a roaring fire is blazing about a minute later. Monet returns to bed, clambering into the soft duvet until she’s sitting astride your hips. You should probably check and make sure she’s done it right, and the whole palace won’t be burning down. In five minutes, perhaps.

“Well?” Monet says archly.

You examine your surroundings. The firelight, the flames cheerfully crackling away, the pretty woman drumming her nails on your stomach impatiently. You say, very seriously, “I am ready for cuddles.”

“Thank goodness,” she replies, and tackles you around the middle, peppering kisses to bare skin.

You think to yourself that there is no better way to wake up.


	2. ulti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> riding ulti.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: somewhat explicit nsfw. it's HORNy hours. get it. because ulti has... *puts on my clown makeup*

* * *

_carnivore melodrama_

* * *

"Hey." Ulti reaches up and tugs on your hair. "Pay attention."

You look down at the woman working between your legs, flushed. You _are_ , but this is cutting it way too close.

As Ulti eloquently put it, she's 'got a meeting with Kaido and the other shitheads, so we have to make it quick.' It's cute when she gets all irritable and snarly when it comes to work. She may be one of the Tobiroppo, but she's still a cocky young woman who loves mouthing off about all the better things she has to do. ( _Like you_ ). And she says she hates it when you call her cute, even though her cheeks flush and she always finds some way of headbutting you in affection afterwards. Your lover's such a mean, two-faced prick.

Ulti tightens the harness of her strap, making sure it's good and snug before she sinks into you. You inhale, clenching your fist at the back of her neck, pulling at her streaked hair, sighing into her shoulder. Without further ado, she rolls you around so you're riding her. You double-take, your world inverting.

"Okay," Ulti says in satisfaction, eyeing you like a predator. "Go to town, babygirl."

"Wh— _like this_?" You're a bit offended. On a time crunch with your superhumanly athletic girlfriend, but _you're_ doing all the work? Come on now.

"Gotta hurry." Impatient, she takes hold of your hips and starts bouncing you on her dick. You _yelp_. "Shit, what a good view. That's it. Feels good?"

There's no room for embarrassment around Ulti. She never hides her emotions because she doesn't _want to_ , and sometimes all her impatience and eagerness and honesty is overwhelming. With her rambling filth in your ear and her brash, demanding hands all over you, you think you want to be overwhelmed by this force of nature.

Your legs around her waist, hands braced over her stomach where her shirt's ridden up. Her strong abdomen is layered with scars, so taut and pretty when she's tensed up. You can't bite back a moan. You also can't believe you're doing this. Ulti's so capricious that it normally falls to you or Page One (but let's be real, it's usually you) to tell her when she's pushing the line. Getting in a quickie before a meeting with Kaido? You know better than to pull Ulti away from her responsibilities. The urgency of it, the ticking clock, the hasty way Ulti's pulled your obi out from its knot, heightens the desperation in you. Your kimono's not even half-off. It's good like this, quick, reckless, half-clothed and frantic.

You push back your hair, pile it up over your head, a clumsy attempt at an oiran's tumbling, sex-mussed tresses. It's a view she wants, after all.

Ulti snickers, pushing your kimono down past your shoulders so she can hungrily admire your breasts. "Come on, princess," she taunts, one dirty leer away from reaching over to a tobacco pipe and lighting it up like a gross old pervert. "The faster you come, the faster I can get out of here."

She says it like this is a _gift_ to you. As if she hadn't been the one to sneak her hands around you and unceremoniously toss you onto her bed. She likes to make you come—actually, you're pretty sure she loves it, because it's all she wants to do lately. When you're coming down from your high, Ulti presses fervent kisses to your chest, so pleased with herself. She'll sneer, "Pretty good, aren't I? Best you've ever had, hm? Go on, say it. Yeah, _that's right_."

She sees this as a competition where the only other competitor is herself. And you heat up, because her stupid patronizing macho comments have that effect on you. She knows it, by the way she's smirking. She uses that tone most often when she's sitting astride your face, her thighs and heat pressing you into the bed, making fun of how eating her out turns you on so much. She's rude and noisy and won't shut up half the time when you two have sex and she smacks your ass and tells you to be louder. It makes you squeak and clench harder and whisper back to stop being so _belligerent_ , even as you melt on the inside.

You grip her horns tight, pushing her back into the pillows. Ulti could snap you like a toothpick. But she only grips your hips tighter and goads you more, demands you to ride harder, that her babygirl is doing so good. You rake your nails down Ulti's back, bite down on her shoulder, pant desperately. If anyone asked you a year ago what you had in mind for the future, getting absolutely railed by one of the Tobiroppo would not have been on that list. But you're good at rolling with the punches, and if your future is a domineering, foul-mouthed, bad-tempered dinosaur who is utterly perfect in every way possible, _well_ , you must be doing pretty well for yourself.

Ulti holds you tight as you come, telling you how good you took it, how pretty you look when you're well-fucked. You sag against her, flushed and sweaty and entirely content. She pulls out of you, unlatches the strap, tosses it somewhere behind her. You both fall on the bed together, you lazily unspooling dark blue hair away from her neck so you can kiss it, her nuzzling your brow so her horns softly scratch against you.

You could spend forever and a day like this in bed, but then you remember. "Ulti. Meeting."

"Shit," she says. There's a mad scramble for clothes. She rolls off you, jams her skirt up her legs, grousing, "Those bitches are gonna have my head. Why'd I let you whip your tits out and seduce me?"

You indignantly tighten your obi around your waist. "You offered, and you know that!"

Her mock-glare melts into a smirk. "Yeah, but I like it when you get all pink. Gimme a kiss before I go."

Before you can stumble forward, Ulti pulls you over by the v of your kimono, presses you flush against her, and takes advantage of your loose robe by sneaking in one last grope to your breast. She kisses you hard, a little clumsy. It's rough, but only the roughness that you love.

Ulti is possessive of the things she deems hers, and the Beast Pirates, even the Gifters and the Headliners, now know better than to look at you the wrong way, despite your minor rank among Black Maria's girls. You feel impossibly safe around her. Her teeth are sharp and threatening against your soft mouth, an ancient predator in the guise of a young woman, but she's never hurt you in a way you didn't like. In the quiet of night, whispering against your bare shoulder, she asks you to believe her when she promises that she never will. (You do.)

She pulls away, finds her cape on the floor, picks up her shoes. Ulti fixes the mask over her smile, and then gives you one last gentle forehead bump before whipping her cape around her shoulders and striding off to war.


End file.
